


All-Purpose

by Snickfic



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Edmonton Oilers, Fisting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega/Omega
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9706883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: Edmonton brought Milan in for a bunch of reasons, but one of them was this: when Connor eventually went into heat, Milan would, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/gifts).



> I've been wanting to write this ship for a while, and your "queered a/b/o" prompt gave me such ideas! I didn't fit quite as much as I wanted into this treat, but I hope you enjoy it. <3

Milan drowsed awake. He was a little warm all over but mostly in his gut, a pooling, low-simmering arousal, biding its time. He lay in his hotel bed in whatever godforsaken city they were in now – Detroit, he decided after a moment’s thought, definitely Detroit – and slowly the awareness seeped in, like water from a spring: he was going into heat. Not immediately, maybe not today, but soon.

“Fuck,” he said, rolling over and opening his eyes. He laughed at the ceiling, incredulous. “Fuck.”

\--

He claimed the seat next to Connor at breakfast. Connor looked a little startled to see him, which confirmed Milan’s suspicion that Connor didn’t realize yet. Well, Milan didn’t remember there being much appreciable difference between pre-heat and regular male adolescence, anyway. And team breakfast was no place for that kind of enlightenment.

“So,” Milan said. “Your first time at the Joe?”

It was, it turned out, which meant Milan’s plan of getting Connor alone after breakfast was shot. Everyone in the city wanted to talk to Connor. Milan left him to it and instead sent him a text: **we should talk**. 

Jordan caught up to Milan after the tape session, looking grimly determined. “Hey—”

“This about Connor?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said warily.

“Yeah, I know.” _Me, too_ , he almost added, and didn’t. If Connor was going into heat, Milan was too, but if Jordan hadn't thought of that yet, Milan wasn’t going to help him out. “I’m on it.”

Jordan slumped in relief. “Awesome. You have to—just be careful, okay? When Hallsy got here, there wasn’t—there wasn’t anyone, you know? It fucked him up. Don’t spread that around,” he added hastily. “That I said that.”

“I’m on it,” Milan repeated.

He checked his phone. There was a series of replies from Connor: **???** and **ok** and, an hour later, **oh shit**.

So Connor had figured it out. That saved Milan from having to break the news.

He kept well away from Connor at lunch and on the bus. He didn’t comment when Connor casually drifted into Milan’s orbit in the hotel lobby and insinuated himself onto Milan’s elevator. Finally they arrived at Milan’s door, just the two of them. Milan held it open, and Connor stepped through.

“So, uh,” Connor said, standing in Milan’s hotel room, shoulders squared.

“Tomorrow, I figure. Maybe late tonight. Can you keep it together for the game?”

Connor stared at Milan, eyes wide, scared as a rabbit. 

“Hey,” Milan said, softer. “You knew this was going to happen, right? It happened last year?”

“Yeah. Just once, because, uh, you know. I was out a long time with my shoulder.” Milan nodded encouragement. “It was me and Hallsy,” Connor said. He slumped onto the bed. “God, he gave me so much shit for dragging him into it. Said he hadn’t had a surprise heat in like five years.”

Milan settled next to him, leaned his elbows on his knees, and tried to look unthreatening. “It happens to every O that gets to the show this young. How are we gonna resist all those raging, fully mature alpha pheromones, eh?” A month into the season, at the tail end of the first lengthy road trip – Milan could have set his watch by Connor, if he’d given it any thought. Which he maybe should have.

Connor cracked a smile, a small victory for Milan, but it disappeared quickly. 

He was Connor McDavid; he didn’t need Milan feeling sorry for him. Milan felt a faint twinge in his chest anyway. “Hey, you gonna be okay for the game?”

Connor’s scent shifted from anxiousness to something sharper and more bitter. He shoved to his feet. “I’ll be fine.”

“And the flight?”

“It’s not like I’ve never had a heat before.”

“Hey, I’m just checking in.” 

There was an ugly look to Connor’s expression, and before he got a word out, Milan knew what came next would be ugly, too. “It’s what they brought you here you for, right? Old man O, here to babysit the Next One?”

“Fuck you,” Milan said, startled.

“We both know they didn’t sign you for your goal production.” Connor’s mouth twisted. “You’re here for me.”

Milan stood. A different, more familiar heat seethed just under his skin, in his fists. “I think it’s time you left.”

“Sure. I’ll catch you later, right?” Connor didn’t wait for an answer. He strode down the hall, and he didn’t look back. The door shut behind him, not quite a slam, and Milan closed his eyes and took in deep breaths, slow and deliberate from his diaphragm, until that blazing anger began to cool.

And now he was supposed to take a pre-game nap. Hah.

\--

He and Connor stayed out of each other’s way that evening: on the bus, in the locker room. Connor gave the team a few encouraging words as they filed out, and he tapped Milan’s fist like he did everyone else’s. He didn’t meet Milan’s eye.

It was a long, grinding game. As Milan stepped off the ice and down the hall, the only thing on his mind was the game in Pittsburgh in two days, and after that, the promise of home. Or of Edmonton, at least, and the apartment that he now called his own.

Then he walked past Connor’s scrum on the way to the shower and caught a whiff, and he remembered there was a very good chance he wasn’t even going to play the game in Pittsburgh. 

By the time he boarded the plane, arousal was pooling in his belly, heavy and too hot. He took a seat in the back, near the bathroom, in hopes that’d mask the smell of him a little. It was a little bit of a surprise when Connor followed him down the aisle and stopped next to his row. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Connor asked.

He was flushed, and Milan’s nose told him it wasn’t just embarrassment. “If you want.”

Connor dropped into the aisle seat. He squirmed, and his blue dress slacks left little to the imagination. Milan’s instinct was to ask Connor if he was going to make it, but he bit down on it. They weren’t going to go find a hotel room now, so Connor would just have to ride it out until, well. Until Milan gave him something else to ride.

“Try to sleep,” Milan said.

“Yeah, right,” Connor muttered. But after he squirmed a little more and adjusted himself a couple of times – Milan could have told him it wouldn’t help – he finally seemed to find a position he could live with. He closed his eyes.

The two of them could only last so long, closed up with twenty alphas and change, breathing recirculated air. Connor’s scent ripened. Milan could feel the slick beginning to drool into his underwear. It was only rigid self-control that kept his hand off his dick, as pointless as it would be. It’d take a redwood up his ass to even touch the need burning in him now.

Connor shoved himself upright, eyes popping open. He looked a little crazed, the way Milan felt. “Can I—?” he asked. Milan raised his eyebrows. Connor pushed the arm rest up and pressed into Milan’s side, and yeah, okay, something about the physical contact was a marginal improvement. Milan draped his arm around Connor and pulled him closer.

Somehow they held it together until the hotel. At one point, as the team walked out of baggage claim to look for their bus, Milan became aware that he and Connor were at the center of a loose, possibly unintentional perimeter of alphas, protecting their own against intruders. 

Finally Milan and Connor spilled into a room. Milan had the vague impression it was meant to be his. Connor was dripping sweat, and by the smell of him, he’d almost certainly soaked through the seat of his slacks, no matter what measures he might have taken to prevent it. He dropped his duffle on the floor. “Fuck.” His voice rasped.

“Hey,” Milan said. He pulled Connor close, and they leaned into each other, barely still on their feet. Milan tried to catch his breath.

Connor put his mouth to Milan’s neck. Didn’t kiss the skin or nibble on it or suck, just rested there. “How are you still this together?” he mumbled.

“Practice. You wanna fuck or talk about my self-control some more?” The only way out was through.

“Shit,” Connor breathed. 

Milan took that for an answer. He stepped away and began to strip: jacket, dress shirt. Shoes, socks, pants. He’d sweated through his undershirt, and even when it was gone he felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He _needed_. He turned to find Connor standing there in his boxers and eyeing Milan with some trepidation. 

“Come the fuck on,” Milan said, impatient and sharp with it and sorry about that, but not sorry enough to slow down. He sat on the bed and gestured for Connor to do the same. “You want me to get my dick up that golden boy ass or what?”

“Fuck you,” Connor said, not without bite, but he shucked off his boxers at last and crawled up next to Milan.

“You want a ride?” Milan asked. He gestured to his flushed, filled-out cock, in case the meaning was unclear. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds…” Connor trailed off.

“Yeah. Give me just a minute, eh?” Milan had to go dig for condoms from his suitcase, and when he turned back around, he caught Connor staring at his ass. Milan quirked a grin, and Connor met his gaze, chin high. Some obscure instinct made Milan offer Connor the condom. “You want?”

Connor ripped open the package and, with sober deliberation belied by the now-permanent flush in his cheeks, he rolled the condom onto Milan. His fingers were cool on Milan’s overheated skin, and gentle. _Soft hands_ , Milan mused. He shivered.

“Okay?” Connor asked, breaking into Milan’s thoughts.

“Yeah, uh. Yeah.” Milan shifted back on the bed, stretching out. Some other time he’d have considered putting on a show. He watched hungrily as Connor climbed onto him and lined himself up. Everything stilled; even that fuzziness in Milan’s head seemed to clear for just a moment as Connor braced himself just above Milan, and then Connor sank down, and everything in Milan whited out for a moment.

He pulled himself together a little once Connor started to move, putting those hockey thighs to use. Still, Milan came embarrassingly soon, within minutes. Connor looked over his shoulder, still needy and a little heat-crazed. Milan wished for one sudden, bitter moment that he was an alpha: that his dick could give Connor what Connor was really hungry for.

But there was no point to that, because if Milan had a knot, he wouldn’t be here. He heaved a sigh directed at the universe and his dick and that aching need in his gut that had not yet even begun to ease, and then he struggled upright. “On your back,” he said. Connor stared like Milan wasn’t even speaking English, but he obeyed Milan’s hands easily enough. He shoved off Milan and rolled over, belly-up. He spread his legs and bent his knees, froggy-style, under Milan’s guidance. 

“Okay?” Milan asked. Connor nodded, open-mouthed, breath still heaving. “Any objections to me putting this in you?” He held up his hand and waggled his fingers.

“Go—go for it,” Connor said, trying for steady and almost making it.

It’d been a while since Milan had put his fist in anyone, but Connor made it easy: he was slippery with slick like only O’s his age could manage. He made little grunts of surprise and uncertainty as Milan worked into him, and then a long, low groan as Milan finally slid his knuckles inside and clenched his hand. “As good as a knot, right?” Milan said, even though it really wasn’t. 

Connor groaned again. “Please?” he said, voice high and thready.

Milan pushed further in. Then out again, then in: a slow-building rhythm that Connor began to brace for, not quite pushing into it. His breath came faster, in gasps, until finally he clenched around Milan’s fist and spurted white strings of jizz across his belly. “Shit,” he said, falling back against the bed.

Milan waited through Connor’s aftershocks, and then he began to withdraw his hand. “No,” Connor said. “Please.”

And Milan knew what that emptiness was like – especially when you were young, when you hadn’t survived enough heats to be really, positively sure you’d survive this one. So he shifted into a position he could hold for a while, and he flexed his fingers inside Connor every so often. Connor’s breathing evened out. 

Milan’s didn’t. That itching need under his skin had become a whine in his ears, a buzz in his teeth that wouldn’t die no matter how he clenched them. His belly cramped with it. “Look, kid,” he said, pulling out at last. “Sorry, I gotta—”

“Shit,” Connor said. He scrambled upright. “Shit, I’m sorry. What do you want? What can I do?”

“It’s fine,” Milan said. That wasn’t quite true, but anything else would require words that were beyond his reach now. “I’ll just—” But he didn’t know what he’d just do. “A knot,” he said. That’s right, he’d brought along one of those. It’d lived in his luggage since he first arrived in Edmonton, for exactly this eventuality. “In my suitcase.”

Connor disappeared for a while. Milan wasn’t sure how long. He dealt with the absence by bending back and pushing a couple of fingers into his hole. It was so far from enough that he pulled them out again, frustrated and pissed and so fucking disappointed. “Fuck.”

“Hey.” Connor reappeared on the bed and squeezed Milan’s shoulder, and then he pushed Milan onto his side. Something new pressed into Milan’s hole, and it wasn’t enough either, but it kept on pushing deeper. Milan heard a familiar squeaky sound he couldn’t quite place, and then finally, finally he was being filled like he needed. His cock twitched, but that was just a decoy, and he ignored it.

He realized after a while that Connor wasn’t holding the knot anymore; that he was stretched out next to Milan. Then Milan realized that his face was wet. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. He couldn’t quite work his hand how he wanted, and finally he gave up and shut his eyes again. “So much for keeping it together, eh? Shit.”

A moment later, clumsy fingers wiped at his cheeks. Milan patted at Connor’s wrist. “Thanks kid.”

“You had your hand up my ass like ten minutes ago,” Connor said. He already sounded half-recovered, like he could go another round in a few minutes. “It’s Connor.”

A smile curled Milan’s mouth, unasked-for. “Okay, Connor.”

\--

Milan had his hand up Connor again before the night was over. Both of them, in fact, though not at the same time. He talked Connor into returning the favor, too. It took coaxing: Connor had never done it before.

“Good hands,” Milan said muzzily. He was lying on his back with Connor wrist-deep in him. “Big.” Milan spread both of his to demonstrate. Connor’s fist wasn’t quite as large as Milan’s toy knot, and it was a hell of a lot more knobby, but there was something about having something alive in him that not even the most deluxe fabricated knot could replicate.

“Thank you,” Connor said unexpectedly. 

Milan cracked an eye open. “For what?” 

Connor shrugged. 

“Those are some communication skills you’ve got there,” Milan grumbled. “If you’re gonna wear that C, you gotta work on those.”

“Everything,” Connor blurted. “This.”

“Well, it’s what they signed me for, eh?” Milan said, mood souring. He shut his eyes. “An O to babysit the Next One.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t mean it.” 

A pause. Connor shifted, dragging his knuckles along Milan’s wall, and Milan shuddered around it, and what a fucking time to be having this conversation. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Yeah, well. That’s another one of those skills you’ll just have to learn, captain. Fuck, get out of me.” Milan shoved up the bed, bringing Connor’s arm with him. Finally Connor got a clue. He opened his hand and withdrew, drawing a last weakling orgasm out of Milan. Jizz dribbled across Milan’s belly.

Milan stomped off to the bathroom. He showered. It was pointless, because he had a good six hours of heat left in him, but scrubbing the jizz and old sweat off his skin helped relieve his feelings a little. He took his time, until need began to twinge in his gut again: a warning sign.

“Do you want something to eat?” Connor asked when Milan came out. He held out a power bar.

Milan shook his head. “Makes me nauseous.”

Connor pulled a sympathetic face. He took another bite of his own bar. “This is why you came to Edmonton, though,” he said, like the conversation never ended. “They wanted you because you could score and fight and protect me and—” His mouth twisted. “—and fuck me. A really all-purpose winger.”

Maybe Milan had washed his temper away in the shower. He sat down next to Connor, and he said, “You really don’t like being an O, do you?”

“Do _you_?”

“There’s worse things to be.” Connor eyed him with deep skepticism. “And it pays well,” Milan added.

“Fuck.” Connor looked moments away from angry tears. But slowly his shoulders slumped, and that was worse.

“I didn’t come to Edmonton to fuck you,” Milan said. 

Connor slid him a glance. “But—”

“I mean, maybe that’s what the Oilers signed me for. That’s their business. But it’s not why I said yes.” 

Connor waited this time, wide-eyed. He watched Milan like Milan had some kind of wisdom to offer. 

Milan couldn’t deal with it. He lay back on the bedcovers, and after a moment, Connor stretched out next to him. “You see any of those interviews, when they asked me why I chose the Oilers? You know what I told them?”

Connor’s answer was barely audible, even this close. “Me.”

“Yeah, you. I wore a t-shirt around with your name on it. What’d you think, I was just staking my claim?” Silence. Milan shoved up on his elbow to stare at Connor, who stared back, flushed and unhappy. Milan slumped back down onto his back so he could stare at the ceiling instead. “Well, shit.”

“You didn’t mean that?”

“No! Fuck.” Milan scrubbed at his face. “No. I was just—I came because of you, yeah. Not because you’re an O. Because you’re the future of this team, of the whole fucking league, and—” He could feel Connor’s eyes on him still, round and disbelieving. It was the disbelief that spurred Milan on, through his growing discomfort. He shrugged against Connor’s shoulder. “I wanted to be a part of it.”

Another silence, but a more thoughtful one. “So,” Connor began. “So you’re saying you’re a fan?”

Milan rolled over to look at Connor, at his smiling face, his open, genuine delight. It was hard to feel too awkward in the face of that. “I guess you could say that. And, uh.” The next thing was even harder to say out loud. He wasn’t entirely sure how Connor would take it. “And we gotta stick together, you know?”

“Yeah.” Connor didn’t add any more to that. 

The cramps of need in Milan’s gut were getting harder to ignore. He’d have to do something about them soon. He was to the point in his heat when nothing quite satisfied anymore and everything was too much anyway: the very worst place to be.

Then Connor crawled up on top of Milan. His face swung into view overhead. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Milan let out a long breath. “I know you didn’t, kid.”

Connor didn’t protest the _kid_. Instead he bent down and caught Milan’s mouth with his. Connor’s breath was foul and his lips were cracking and bitten raw, but the kiss was firm, insistent. Earnest, full of teenage feelings Connor wouldn’t speak aloud.

Whatever the Oilers had brought Milan to Edmonton for, kissing their hockey Jesus wasn’t it. So Milan cupped the back of Connor’s head, threaded his fingers through Connor’s sweaty hair, and he kissed back. He sucked on Connor’s sore lips, and Connor’s breath caught but he didn’t pull away. “I need—” Connor said. He sighed against Milan’s mouth.

Milan dropped his head back against the sheets. “Time for another round?”

“Yeah.” Connor rolled off him and away. The next moment, there came the tell-tale crinkle of a condom wrapper, which told Milan what he was going to be doing in a few minutes. He closed his eyes and felt the press of Connor’s lips again, the weight of his hips.

And then the real Connor was back, bright-eyed and looking for Milan’s cock. It was enough for now.

[end]


End file.
